



^^'^ 








1 




^%>^ 




o--'^- 

^ '-^ 


*v H ^ 


"^ 


* \ 


v*<!'^ 


^'l^-> 


> 






D0 ©^CfKER !^OK}vC^ 



33 'y 











- ■■ ifSr- r,' , 

J ^ ■ -t^ > \ 




TOWARD SUNSET, 



AND 



OTHER POEMS. 



" Mere Amber-Beads at Random Strung." 



FRANK H. STAUFFER, 

» I 

AX-'THOR OF " DORLAN THE SCOUT," " NAMELESS NAN," " MISSIONARY 

MADGE," "FANCHET THE FAWN," "SACRIFICING HER 

FORTUNE," ETC., ETC. 






PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO 
1876. 




5n 



2 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by 

FRANK H. STAUFFER, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



There breathes no being but has some pretence 
To that fine instinct called poetic sense. — Holmes. 



These poems appeared in the various magazines and newspapers 
of the country, and were composed in odd moments stolen from the 
arduous duties of daily journalism. 

The author now collects and publishes them merely to please him- 
self and 

HIS TWO LITTLE CHILDREN, 

FRANK AND ETTA, 

AND TO THEM HE FONDLY 

DEDICATES THE VOLUME. 

He is sure of their appreciation, which will make amends, to a very 
large extent, for any want of appreciation others may exhibit. 
Reeseville, Pa., Oct. 3, 1876. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Agatha 23 

Allen Clyde 20 

Allie Fay 108 

Almost Home . , .76 

A Name that was not Mine 64 

Another Year 41 

A Prayer for Strength • 35 

April 85 

A Serenade 38 

At oea •*••••,,, ^ ii*^ 

August Showers oo 

Beside the Gate {Illustrated) 70 

Bringing Water from the Spring (///«j/r^/^<f) . . . .49 

Broken Pledges [Illustrated) 65 

Brown Eyes .58 

Christ the Crucified a^ 

Come Home 118 

Come to Me, White Spirit 66 

Dream Vagaries 62 

Faith and Love 69 

Flowers, Bright Flowers 40 

From Graham's Cabinet of Kisses 123 

7 



8 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Growing Old Together 52 

Home on Furlough 94 

Hopeful to the End 59 

How our Fan was Called 24 

I am Waiting, Andrian S^ 

I Have Often Watched Her 104 

Inspiration 4^ 

In the Empty Church 119 

In the Orient 17 

In the Swing 101 

In the Sugar Camp 26 

July {Illustrated^ 89 

June 88 

June Flowers 82 

Lashed to the Mast 97 

Little Nellie {Illustrated) 80 

Look for the Cross, the Only Guide 29 

Love 22 

Love's Moodiness 68 

Many, Many Leagues at Sea . . . . . . .60 

March 84 

May 86 

Miisic 103 

My Baby-Boy is Dead 61 

My Beautiful Beloved . . . . . . . . . 114 

My Troubadoiu: 107 

Nearing the Beach 102 

No Occasion to Sigh 82 



CONTENTS. 9 

PAGE 

November . • 93 

Old Letters 39 

Out in the Snow 109 

Over the Way {Illustrated) ... . . . . . • 5^ 

Penitent no 

Press Kisses unto Mine, Moist Lips 53 

Ravens-Hall {Illustrated) • 30 

So a Messmate Wrote 95 

Soft Rain 122 

Sultry Night .47 

Summer Night 105 

Talking Letters 116 

The Bells of St. Joseph , 16 

The Blossoms were Crowning the Hedges 107 

The Cavalry Charge 96 

The Cross of Christ 17 

The Dead Heart 120 

The Dying Chasseur 73 

The Fisher's Daughter {Illustrated) 19 

The Gatekeeper's Daughter 36 

The Light- House in a Storm 78 

The Lost Soul 112 

The Old World Wedded to the New in 

The Poet's Wish 67 

The Ruined Church {Illustrated) 42 

The Snow 45 

The Snow through the Night {Illustrated) 99 

The Twins 83 

The World is Full of Earnest Men 61 



lo CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To the Stars . .... ...... .37 

Toward Sunset (///?(fj/raif^fl?) 13 

Two Epitaphs 18 

Very Soon Told 58 

Which? . . lis 

Who is Happy ? •34 

Wishes . 53 

Your Face is Growing Wrinkled .28 




The sun is sinking in the west, 
Each hill-top wears a golden crest, 
And valleys in deep shadows rest." 



TOWARD SUNSET, 



AND 



OTHER POEMS. 



TOWARD SUNSET. 

The traveler trudges o'er the road ; 
His bundle se-ems like quite a load ; 
The thoughts of home his footsteps goad. 

No need for him the way to ask ; 
He holds his staff with tighter grasp 
For fresh installments of his task. 

No longer heats of noon descend ; 
Onward his footsteps slowly tend ; 
He knows his journey soon will end. 

The sun is sinking in the west, 
Each hill-top wears a golden crest, 
And valleys in deep shadows rest. 

The crows are cawing in the woods, 
The waning day the coppice floods, 
The gath'ring twilight deeper broods. 

2 13 



14 



TOWARD SUNSET. 

The sheep are bleating on the slope, 
The frogs amid the marshes croak, 
The mill keeps up its tireless stroke. 

The plow-horse rubs against his mate, 
The cows are pushing through the gate. 
Where, with their pails, the milk-maids wait. 

The table spread with frugal meal, 
The farm-house bell rings out its peal — 
Its echoes o'er the hillsides steal. 

The welcome sound the traveler hears — 
His lagging step it sweetly cheers. 
And takes him back to boyhood's years. 

The homestead roof is dimly seen 

Amid a waving sea of green ; 

The past seems like some fading dream. 

He briskly climbs the winding hill ; 
His eyes with beams of gladness fill, 
With newer life his pulses thrill. 

Toward Sunset ! Toward Home ! 
Ah ! never more his feet shall roam — 
A father's love has bid him come ! 

Hearts no longer wait nor yearn, 
And words and looks with fervor burn 
To greet the prodigal's return. 



TOWARD SUNSET. 15 

No taunts about what might have been ! 
No taunts about his shame nor sin ! 
For all is now forgiven him ! 

Life is but a pilgrimage at best, 
Until its sun sets in the west 
And tired souls at last find rest. 

Old age creeps on us unaware, 
We stagger with a load of care, 
Our faces lines of trouble wear. 

We break the vows that we have made, 
We hug delusions till they fade, 
We mourn o'er confidence betrayed. 

Ambitions miss their lofty aim, 
Pleasure lures with phantom flame. 
Sweets turn to gall and joys to shame. 

The world turns out to be a cheat — 
Because we walk with devious feet. 
And choose the bitter for the sweet. 

Tired, foot-sore, friendless, and alone. 
We sigh for lasting joys to come, 
And turn our footsteps toward home. 

As life thus "lessens on the lee" 
Our Father's House by Faith we see 
Through atonement made on Calvary. 



1 6 THE BELLS OF ST. JOSEPH. 

O eyes, grow dim ! Shake, palsied hands ! 
O faster fall, ye ebbing sands ! 
Come nearer, O ye shining lands ! 

'Tis nothing — all we here endure ; 

Our Father's Promises are Sure, 

Our Home is with the Good and Pure ! 

Pain is little : Death is less — 

Nay, but the gate to Happiness ! 

Thy name. Dear Lord, for this I bless ! 

Toward Sunset ! Toward Home ! 
Life's Pilgrimage is almost done — 
A Loving Father bids me come ! 

Death's Valley ! But a darken'd line : 

Eternal Hills beyond it shine ! 

There is the Saviour's Home, and mine ! 



THE BELLS OF ST. JOSEPH. 

Her bells are ringing gently on the air, 
Breathing of worshipfulness and prayer. 
Calling us from worldly vanities away — 
Some babe is to be christened there to-day. 

Her bells are pealing gayly on the air. 
Waking joyful echoes everywhere; 



IN THE ORIENT. 



17 



Through doors and gateways stream the young and gay- 
Some girl is to be married there to-day. 

Her bells are tolling sadly on the air, 
Though the morning is so bright and fair ; 
The sexton throws up the clods of clay — 
Some one is to be buried there to-day. 

Her bells are ringing daily on the air, 
Three eras marking in our life of care ; 
Twice they rang for me that gleeful way — 
They will toll for me some happy day. 



IN THE ORIENT. 

The valleys glowed like purple gulfs of flame, 
The hills shone strong and clear. 

And from the vine-clad terraces there came 
The songs of vintage to the ear. 

Half drugged with the drowsy wine of love, 
And by those summer heats oppressed, 

No wonder her eyes shone like stars above 
The head reclining on her breast. 

The lazy neap-tide, as it came and went, 
Puls'd gently round her naked feet ; 

The sunlight with her nut-brown hair was blent 
And made her face seem O how sweet ! 

2* 



\ TWO EPITAPHS. 

I felt how much of subtleness there lies 
In touch of woman's finger-tips ; 

I felt the lightning of her love-lit eyes, 
The rain of kisses on my lips ! 

How ecstasy to words of fondness clung ! 

How hearts were fire-weld'd with hot tears ! 
How those white hands in agony were wrung 

That waved adieu for years — for years ! 



TWO EPITAPHS. 

I. 

So he is dead? Well, let him rest. 

What left he to the world behind ? ' 
Of thoughts and words and deeds the best, 

And richest treasures of the mind. 

II. 

He died, as half the world do die : 
Unwept for now and unlov'd then. 

'Tis well : we say it with a sigh — 
He has made room for better men ! 



THE FISHER'S DAUGHTER. 



19 



THE FISHER'S DAUGHTER. 

The fisher's daughter walks the sands, 
She shades her brow with nervous hands, 
And gazes out beyond the strands. 




A weird-like light the pale moon flings, 
The gulls have folded up their wings, 
The caves give back resonant dins. 



The wavelets kiss her brown, bare feet ; 
She waits her father's step to greet ; 
Was ever face more fair 'or sweet ? 



20 ALLEN CLYDE. 

A cabin stands on nearest height ; 
Within the window burns a light, 
A star upon the brow of night. 

What speck is that? A snow-white sail ; 
His fishing-smack outrides the gale. 
What cry is that? His welcome hail. 

A cheering sound above the roar, 
The keel grates on the rocky shore — 
God's hand has kept him safe once more. 

Perhaps because of prayers she said. 
He lays his hand upon her head ; 
She wonders why she felt afraid. 

His wife sleeps on the sloping lea ; 
His only boy was lost at sea, 
And no one left but Margery ! 



ALLEN CLYDE. 

I BECAME your bride, 

Allen Clyde. 

Voices sweet were singing, 

Bells were gladly ringing, 

For old time was bringing 

In the young and blushing year that day. 



ALLEN CLYDE. 21 

Since then I have often sighed, 
And in wretchedness have cried — 
Did you come and kiss my tears away, 
Allen Clyde ? 

I became your bride, 
Allen Clyde, 
t Flakes of snow were sifting. 
The sun was uplifting 
The clouds that were drifting 
Away to a shore of ashen gray. 

Whether weal or woe betide, 
Did you swear to love your bride ? 
Ask your heart, some weary day, 
Allen Clyde. 

I became your bride, 
Allen Clyde. 
Ah ! Were you kind and good ! 
Didst love me as you should ? 
As gentle lover would ? 
Tell me ; it is just a year to-day. 
Oh, I wish that I had died 
On the night I stood a bride ! 
For I tread a dark and weary way, 
Allen Clyde ! 



22 LOVE. 



LOVE. 

Her temple in the soul Love rears — 
She crowns with stars its arching dome, 

And rich the gifts the pilgrim years , 

In passing offer as their own. 

With simplicity love wooes the heart, 

And scorns the subtleties of art. 

How bright her fires on the altars Durn 
When Reason waves the kindling torch, 

And Faith and Hope, in watchful turn. 
Stand guard upon the outer porch ! 

Unshriven hands should never touch 

What glorifies our lives so much. 

What made Heloise for Abelard 

Weep tears of tenderness and truth ? 

And who of stronger love hath heard 
Than that of Naomi and Ruth? 

Or that of which, with burning tongue, 

The blind old Bard of Scio sung? 

The golden chord of sympathies 
Around the living world she binds. 

And truths, eternal as the skies. 
Leap o'er this telegraph of minds! 

The magnetism of our hearts to draw, 

At once the prophet and the law ! 



AGATHA. 



23 



AGATHA. 



I. 



Walking amid a world of quiet dreams ! 

From amid thy shadowy hair 
How white thy spotless forehead gleams ! 

There's not a face on which I care 
Love's silent rapture thus to feed, 
For thine is beautiful indeed. 

II. 

How like a holy, white-robed nun 

Thou walkest 'neath the young May moon, 

Waiting for thy last hour to come, 
Yet fearing it may come too soon ! 

What fate hath wrapt thy life in gloom, 

watcher by the silent tomb ? 

III. 

1 see thee lying on thy bier, 

And yet I cannot, would not weep, 
And no sad mourner standing here 

Would break thy quiet sleep. 
Dead to all yearning and unrest — 
Thou art, indeed, supremely blest ! 



HOW OUR FAN WAS CALLED. 



HOW OUR FAN WAS CALLED. 

" Ben, I've been called !" 'Twas our Fan sed that 
She had a way of blurting out her words ; 

She stood in the doorway, a-swingin' of her hat, 
Her head sot to one side, jes' like a bird's. 

1 whar cooperin' away right brisk, 

But let up, to give a hoop a whisk. 

You see, boys. Fan wasn't like no other girl — 
I mean her fancy didn't run on like theirs ; 

She never chaffered, nor set her lips a-curl. 
And wasn't one to put on high-bred airs ; 

Instead, she'd lighten other people's cares, 

And sort of do it unawares. 

''Called to what?" axed I. '' To die, d'ye mean?' 
I sed it in a kind of teazin' way, you see. 

Fan allers was in arnest, but I didn't dream 
How near the truth my jokin' words had been. 

She looked at me, an' ses she, with face serene, 

"To die ? Yes— if God should ask that of me !" 

" Thar's work to do." '' Oh, ev'ry whar," ses I. 

''Work doun to. Memphis!" an' Fan's lips shook. 
" Send medicines and nurses is the cry !" 

I gasped like when one's breath is took. 
''You go to Memphis!" "Yes, why not I?" 



NO IV OUR FAN WAS CALLED. 25 

I mus' say, boys, I understood her then. 

'' Nonsense, Sis ! You haven't bin called !" I sed. 
Yet knew 'tweren't no use when 

Once our Fan had sot her head. 
She shook it and ses, " I'm a-goin', Ben." 
'Tweren't in my heart, no how, to say ''Amen !" 

Well — doun thar to Memphis our Fan went. 

Amid the Pestilence's orful breath, 
Whar Woe and Desolation whar blent 

O'er pathways as led down to Death. 
She on a angel mission sent, 
To watch an' nurse, an' nurse an' bless. 

''She cum back?" I never seed her agin : 
She died down thar. God willed it so. 

An' I tries hard, boys, not to complain. 

But it kinder goes agin the grain. 
It whar a ugly, back-handed blow 

That sot my heart jumpin' wild with pain, 
An' I don't think I'll ever know 

How loss of her is goin' to be my gain. 



26 IJ^ THE SUGAR CAMP. 



IN THE SUGAR CAMP. 

How it snows ! How it blows ! 

Quite enough to freeze one's toes, 
Or make him mutter as he goes, 

" How confoundedly it blows !" 
It is March, and the larch 

Moans such weary moans, 
And the trembling poplar trembles. 

And the white pine flings its cones 

On the rocks and scraggy stones. 

It augers little good 

When through the maple wood 

The borers wend their noisy way ; 
To be rapping, to be sapping. 
With a sort of syrup-\\\\Q)V& tapping, 

Where the juicy veins may lay. 
Through tubes of elder or sumac 
Flows the dripping sap ; 
And such nectar ! even Hector 
Would have stood protector 
By those vessels filling to the brim. 
Pouring over at the rim. 

How the smoke is curling 
And unfurling 
Upward from the low-roofed shed ; 
While the men with faces red. 



IN THE SUGAR CAMP. 

Under the kettles and the boilers — 
Eighteen- and twenty-gallon boilers — 

Thrust the blazing wood ! 

Oh, it does one good 

Just to catch the flavor 

And the savor 
That comes from the scum, 
And the deliquescent gum, 
That may drip upon the wood, 
If through carelessness it should ! 

How the girls. 

With eyes like pearls, 

Shining through their curls, 
Pour the sugar into the moulds 
With the dipper each one holds ! 
Verses improvising as they watch it crystallizing 
In the icy air of night. 

What a sight ! 
In itself a crystalline delight, 

A saccharine delight. 

There are foot-prints in the snow, 
By the maples far below, 
Where was little need to go ; 
And peals of laughter ring upon the air, 
Startling the drowsy hare. 
And waking echoes everywhere. 
Have a care, and beware ! 
Such tender wishes, 
And such kisses. 
Pretty misses, 



27 



28 YOUR FACE IS GROWING WRINKLED. 

May steal your hearts away 
Some winter day, 
So they may ! 



YOUR FACE IS GROWING WRIN- 
KLED. 

Your face is growing wrinkled, 

Your hair is growing gray, 
And your eyes have caught a trick 

Of looking far away ; 
But I love you more than ever, 

And worship you to-day. 

The things of earth are fleeting. 

And plannings go astray ; 
Every timid pilgrim meets 

xA lion in the way ; 
And only those are safe, indeed, 

Who daily watch and pray. 

Your step has grown unsteady, 
Your voice has lost its tone ; 

Sometimes I hear you moaning 
A dreary, weary moan ; 

I feel that I may soon, ah, soon ! 
Be walking all alone. 



LOOK FOR THE CROSS. 

E'er faithful to each other, 
And loving God and man, 

Thus arm in arm together 
Our pilgrimage began ; 

So let us take our duties up, 
And do them if we can. 



29 



LOOK FOR THE CROSS, THE ONLY 

GUIDE. 

The traveler lost in Alpine snows 
Seeks earnestly for the cross that shows 
The way the narrow foot-path goes. 

So should we, when turned aside 
PVom walks that make life glorified, 
^Look for the Cross, the only Guide. 



30 



RA VENS-HALL. 




RAVENS-HALL. 

A PRETTY, simple grange is Ravens-Hall, 
With orchards fleck' d with fruitage in the fall. 
With fields of drowsy wheat and bearded rye, 
And other rural things to please the eye. 

Into the dormer-windows on the top 
The poplars their oily buds in season drop ; 
The sunlight shines in patches on the floors. 
And vines are trailing round the narrow doors. 



The old barn, with thatched and shelving roof. 
Stands some twenty yards or so aloof; 



RAVENS-HALL, 



31 



The vane upon its peak unfailing shows 
Which way the wind has shifted, when it blows. 

The yellow corn shines through the clapboard bin, 
And new-mown hay fills all the mows within ; 
I have stood for hours by the open door 
To watch the threshers beating on the floor. 

The swallows 'mid the rafters build their nest, 
Or stop awhile from mazy flights to rest; 
So loud their twitter, and so great their din, 
That two of them would surely make a Spring. 

Among meadows stretching out of sight 
The fences glimmer with a ghostly white — 
More tasty where they line the dusty road. 
O'er which the stage creeps daily with its load. 

And the pines! 'mid trees so tall and grand as they 
Ariel might improvise his soul away ! 
'Twas there the ravens met in ebon flocks. 
To talk about the tardiness of crops ; 

Or, with flapping wings and deafening caws, 
Extend their system of aggressive laws. 
Other senates have met, we must confess. 
That made more noise and yet accomplished less ! 

I will not say a raven's right to vote 
Consists in great capacity of throat ; 
That from choice, or fear of being cuffed, 
Their judges see the boxes are well stuffed ! 



32 



JRA VENS-HALL. 



Though such things do occur, as each one knows, 
In other republics than those of crows ! 
'Twere better if offices went once again, 
Like Diogenes, in search of men ! 

The spring-house standing by the brook alone. 
The tiles with green and yellow moss o'ergrown; 
The well, with oaken bucket by the draw. 
The lye dripping from the tubs of matted straw ; 

The fish-nets hanging by the jutting eaves. 
The porch roof stock'd beneath with scythes and sieves ; 
Such simple things as these comprise the charms 
That linger round our Pennsylvania farms. 

The attic room, where in white gowns we knelt 
To breathe the childish prayers which we felt. 
Or awoke, to listen to the falling sleet, 
To hoot of owl, or lambkin's plaintive bleat ; 

The dusky shadows and the sunlight floods. 
The verdur'd meadows and the dappled woods. 
The fields, the shady nooks, the waterfall — 
Association weds us to them all. 

It is true that in part, for things like these, 
I love the grange, soft cradled in the trees ; 
Yet, were it built upon a dreary moor. 
With no bright landscape sloping from the door, 

With no ripening fruits nor herbage green, 
Nor welcome face of stranger ever seen, 



RAVENS-HALL. 

I feel I could not help but love it some, 
For there the record of my life begun. 



33 




We love the homestead of our early years, 
Sacred to our memory and our tears ; 
The hearth at which, with Bible on his knees, 
Our father read of brighter skies than these. 



34 WHO IS HAPPY P 

Old Ravens-Hall ! While now the sunlight floods 
The verdured meadows and the dappled woods, 
Let warmer inspiration seize my brain, 
And more to Truth than Fancy give the rein ! 



WHO IS HAPPY? 

He is happy who, with earnest hands. 
Builds his fortune where he stands ; 
Who treats his fellows as he should. 
And spends his life in doing good. 

He is happy who, with conscience clear, 
Braves the world. He has naught to fear 
Who shows to others on the way 
The goal he hopes to reach one day. 



A PRAYER FOR STRENGTH. 35 



A PRAYER FOR STRENGTH. 

Has sin defiled me with its touch? 
Have I been righteous overmuch ? 
If so, O Lord, mark out my way, 
And teach me what to do and say. 

Not for the works that I have done — 
How pitiful would be their sum ! 
Not for prayers that I have said. 
Nor yet for tears that I have shed ; 

But because I confide in Thee — 
But because thou hast died for me ; 
In that sweet promise I believe : 
'' O come to Jesus Christ and live !" 



36 



THE GATEKEEPER'S DAUGHTER. 



THE GATEKEEPER'S DAUGHTER. 

From early dawn to ev'ning late 
She sits beside the turnpike gate 
To take the toll of those who wait. 

They stop to chat with her awhile, 
An-d what she says serves to beguile 
The way for many a weary mile. 

They call her pretty — and yet why ? 
'Tis not in lip, nor cheek, nor eye, 
Unusual necromancies lie. 

Her soul its purity betrays 

In a thousand childlike ways. 

And that long in their memory stays. 

When done the life she glorifies, 
O she shall sit with starry eyes 
Within the Gates of Paradise ! 



TO THE STARS. 



37 



TO THE STARS. 

Sweet watchers of the night, 
Bejeweling the summer air, 
Say, are there ''many mansions" there, 
Beyond those gates so wide and fair? 

O spirits of the dead ! 
As such ye sometimes seem to me. 
As such I sometimes talk to ye, 
And ask of things that are to be. 

Ye send no answer back ! 
'Tis to reprove a faith so weak ; 
It is to make me pure and meek. 
And happiness in Christ to seek. 

Shine on, ye twinkling orbs ! 
And when my spirit wings its flight. 
Blest with the knowledge of the right, 
Mark out my pathway through the night ! 



38 



A SERENADE. 



A SERENADE. 

Gently sighs the evening breeze, 
The moon is climbing higher ; 

Above the wavy line of trees 
I see the old church-spire. 

There never was a night more fair. 
Nor heart more true than mine ; 

I've much to say I do not care 
To tell in idle rhyme. 

Endearing words in whispers said, 

And with a touch of hands, 
And glow of starry eyes that shed 

A light from summer lands. 

Come forth, O sweet-voic'd love of mine ! 

To lean upon my arm, 
To share with me a night so fine, 

A love so true and warm ; 

To watch the fires of ev'ning gleam 

Beyond the hills of gray, 
As side by side we sit and dream, 

And talk the night away. 



OLD LETTERS. 39 



OLD LETTERS. 

Quite simple things within themselves, 

Yet each a priceless gem ; 
What wonder that I bring them out, 

And read them, now and then? 

How tremulous the lines appear ! 

And here a blot or two ! 
But eyes were never made to see 

When scalding tears come through. 

A tear ! A volume in a drop ! 

Soon shap'd and sooner shed. 
Ah ! hers were for the living wept — 

Let mine be for the dead. 

She died, and so must I, some time ; 

And some time it may please 
A friend to weep o'er lines of mine, 

As I weep over these. 

Thrice has the pawpaw flushed since then, 
And thrice has bloomed the pea ; 

And yet it seems, I scarce know why. 
Like many, many years to me. 



40 FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS. 



FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS. 

Flowers, bright flowers, 

Wet with the dew, 
Brought from dim bowers, 

Dearest, for you. 

In an after-thought 

Linked to a vow 
Was the wreath wrought 

I offer thee now. 

• Lilies that nested 

By the water's edge. 
Blossoms that crested 
The hawthorn hedge. 

Violets found 

In a twilight hush, 
And roses that crowned 

A flaming bush. 

For what could I bring 

More sweet and true, 
Than flowers of Spring 

To symbol you ? 



ANOTHER YEAR. 

Smiles may be sad, 

And tears may be hot ; 
Flowers may fade, 

But our love will not. 



41 



ANOTHER YEAR. 

Another year has sped its round, 
And sleeps amid the dreamy past ; 

The midnight bell with leaden sound 
Tells that its days have closed at last. 

How many are the lost and dead ? 

How many now upon their bier? 
Yet /, by a Father's kindness led, 

Am still a waiting pilgrim here. 

Holy Father ! Amid the calm 

And stillness of this midnight hour. 

My soul doth in an earnest psalm 
Sing of thy Goodness and thy Power. 

May I thus ever kindly be 

An object of thy watchful care. 

So that by living close to thee 
My life shall grow divinely fair ! 
4* 



42 



THE RUINED CHURCH. 




THE RUINED CHURCH. 

The winds of Autumn wildly moan 

The vestibule within ; 
And prone upon the threshold stone 

The broken doors are seen. 

The ivy from each gothic arch 
In rich festoons descends ; 

And by the broken stile the larch 
Its branches sadly bends. 



No longer with a winsome zest 
Float church-bell chimes along ; 

The swallow with her matted nest 
Has bound the iron tongue. 



THE RUINED CHURCH. 

The sunbeams, as of erst, with smiles 

Shine on the pulpit old. 
Or through the dim monastic aisles 

Trace out pathways of gold. 

The tombstones ghostly gleam amid 
The tangled weeds and grass ; 

And late at night, with nervous dread. 
Boys whistle as they pass. 

And though no more the fervent gush 

Of worship fills the air, 
There lingers in the solemn hush 

A spell as sweet as prayer. 

People once stood within those shades 

To watch some happy bride. 
To see them christen sinless babes. 

Or bury those who died. 

The 'Squire who gave the strip of land, 
And those who filled the pews. 

The pastor who with upraised hand 
Proclaimed the Gospel news, 

Sleep the sleep of the happy dead, 

Returned to dust again ; 
And those who grew up in their stead, 

Grew up purse-proud and vain. 

The old church did not suit their time — 
One far more grand they built, 



43 



44 



THE RUINED CHURCH. 

With bells that ring a silver chime, 
With altar marble-gilt ; 

With a front that on the avenue 
Shines gorgeous in the sun ; 

A belfry high, an organ, too. 
That cost a princely sum. 

There are no graves now, to remind 

That all of us must die ; 
The rich, whose pockets are well lined. 

The pews at auction buy ! 

But whether there more grace is known 

Is not for me to say ; 
God does not gather up His Own 

Until the Judgment Day. 



THE SNOW. 



45 



THE SNOW. 

The feathery flakes fill all the air 
And nestle gently everywhere, 
Till even homely things look fair. 

The hills are clad in crystal sheen, 
The trees in silver armor gleam, 
And glassy bridges span the stream. 

What king's exchequer e'er could buy 
The many gems that meet the eye, 
Thus softly sifting from the sky ? 

What artist could we e'er entice 
To fashion but one quaint device 
Like these we see in snow and ice ? 

O ! the whole world is rich to-day ! 
'Tis true, these gems will melt away — 
So does rt!// wealth, the Scriptures say. 



46 INSPIRATION. 



CHRIST THE CRUCIFIED. 

Christ the crucified ! 
On Calvary thou was deified ! 
May thy death make my own death glorified ! 

Far from thee I live, 
Failing thy goodness to perceive ! 
Doubting most when I should most believe ! 

Ever prone to err, 
And ever ready to demur, 
Or my daily crosses to defer ! 

Humble and contrite. 
Lead me out of this dark night 
Into the full splendor of the Light ! 



INSPIRATION. 

Inspiration ! First cradled in the skies 
And shining earliest in the prophets' eyes ! 
At thy magic touch the rough marble gleams 

Into ecstatic shapes, and breathes and lives ! 
'Tis thou who in the artist's waking dreams 

The light of glory to the canvas gives ! 
The poet, too, doth catch the sparkling glow. 
And strews with stars our darksome paths below. 



SULTRY NIGHT. 



47 



In music, thy soul dissolving on the air 

Drops down in winning sounds into our own ; 

And common things uncommon beauty wear 

When beaming rays of thine are round them thrown. 

The fire of Genius ! The light Divine ! 

That streameth down the frowning walls of Time ! 



SULTRY NIGHT. 

'Tis night ! Upon the sleeping air 
No sounds of life are heard ; 

Of trees that bend in silent prayer 
The branches scarce are stirred ! 

Listless the cloud isles float away 

Into a calmer sea of gray ! 

Like to a girl with beating breast 
Who turns from mirth aside, 

Half glad so soon, and yet depressed. 
To be a loving bride, 

Doth glide the moon the stars amid. 

Her blushing cheek from gaze half hid. 

The owl gives out a plaintive moan 
From shadows drear and black, 

Then waits to catch the answer thrown 
From distant belfry back ; 



48 SULTRY NIGHT. 

While far below wild-flowers spread 
Above the houses of the dead ! 

So calm is all ! so still ! so lone ! 

No soft, reviving airs ! 
The thistle's restless down upon 

No aimless voyage dares, 
And night-bird from the leaves among 
Scarce has the heart to raise her song ! 

So quiet all, that it doth seem 
As if 'twere heaven here! 

And none a thought of harm to dream 
Or know a waking fear ! 

And all the world so richly blest 

That God himself hath gone to rest ! 



BRINGING WATER FROM THE SPRING. 49 




BRINGING WATER FROM THE 
SPRING. 



Framed in by the dusky wood 
With fingers to her lips she stood, 
More pretty than a startled fawn 
Wandering in the starless dawn. 
5 



50 BRINGING WATER FROM THE SPRING. 

Her cheeks and lips were cherry red, 
Her eyes were dark with tears unshed, 
Her teeth were white as any pearls, 
Her laugh was joyous as a girl's. 

Why gazed she forth with such intent ? 
Why were her ears attentive bent ? 
Why sank her laugh to gentle hush ? 
Why glowed her cheeks with crimson flush? 

Her bupket stood beside the spring ; 
Why did she loiter ? Idle thing ! 
Her mother calling from the gate. 
And chance of breakfast being late ! 

She heard a step adown the lane. 
Heard one who whistled as he came ; 
Who always, at the dawn of day. 
Somehow came lounging down that way ! 

She gave her curls a saucy toss — 
Curls that were bright and soft as floss ; 
And filled her bucket to the brim — 
He should not know she watched for him. 

He came in sight — a handsome lad 
In plain and cleanly homespun clad. 
With trustful eyes and honest face — 
A scion of a toiling race. 

He took from her the dripping pail. 

Not that he feared her strength might fail, 



BRINGING WATER FROM THE SPRING. ^i 

Or that so distant was the way, 
Or that he had so much to say. 

So much ! 'Twas but a gentle word 
That all her tender being stirred, 
That made her turn her face aside, 
More blushful than a new-made bride. 

The farmer's wife turned from the gate; 
What though the breakfast might be late ? 
The dinner, or the supper, too. 
When bonnie Reuben stopped to woo ? 

There was a time when, up the glade, 
She, too, had loitered as a maid. 
And listened to the vows of one 
Whose life, like his, was fair and young. 



52 



GROWING OLD TOGETHER. 



GROWING OLD TOGETHER. 

Friends may be false — friends may be true — 

And friends deceive us sadly, 
But what is that to me or you, 

Who love each other madly ? 

You have your faults, and I have mine. 
We have good traits in common ; 

Angels, indeed, serenely shine. 
But they are more than human. 

The years go by, old age creeps on. 
And wan white hands grow nervous ; 

We see, more clearly, right from wrong, 
And honor those who serve us. 

Together we have thus grown old — 

Ne'er guilty of deceiving; 
A kingdom lies, beyond Death's wold, 

For those who die believing. 

We know the grave is very nigh. 

Cold, shivering, and cheerless, 
And yet we heave no weary sigh, 

And eyes are calm and tearless. 

For Death but opens wide the gate 

To Life that is immortal. 
And those who in sweet patience wait 

Are first to cross the portal ! 



PRESS KISSES UNTO MINE, MOIST LIPS. 53 



WISHES. 

Heaven — bless her daily tasks, 

God — encamp about her ! 
Hope — give all- the strength she asks, 

Love — be naught vi^ithout her ! 

Life — grow sweeter ev'ry day, 
• Heart — grow strong for duty ! 
Death — point out the starry way 
To the Land of Beauty ! 



PRESS KISSES UNTO MINE, MOIST 

LIPS. 

Press kisses unto mine, moist lips. 
Breathe out my name, sweet voice ; 

Gaze fondly into mine, dark eyes, 
And make my heart rejoice. 

Come back, soft* sighs, upon the air. 

Seek out, white hand, my own ; 
Catch, waiting ear, the noiseless tread. 

So ghost-like does it come. 



54 PRESS KISSES UNTO MINE, MOIST LIPS. 

Ah me ! I breathless wait in vain, 

Nor sigh nor step I hear ; 
Nor hands I feel, nor lips that kiss 

Away the scalding tear. 

The rain against the casement beats ; 

And by the dripping eaves 
The wind sweeps with a gentle moan, 

Like quivering of sheaves. 

It hath a voice. It seems to say, 

" O why thus sadly weep? 
Tears dropping on the silent dead 

Can never break their sleep." 

Sweet one ! Thou liest in the grave, 

From weariness at rest ; 
O may my life like thy life be — 

My death as richly blest ! 



/ AM WAITING, ANDRTAN! 5- 



I AM WAITING, ANDRIAN! 

I AM waiting, Andrian ! 
While the stars up the silver bars 
Of night trace a half translucent light, 
And the ocean's moan, but a weary monotone, 
Makes my heart seem still more lone — 
More lone, Andrian ! 

I am waiting, Andrian ! 
Clasp I hands, on the sands, 
Less white than my face to-night ! 
Echo mocks my tread in the crags overhead. 
And I shrink away in dread — 
In dread, Andrian ! 

I am waiting, Andrian ! 
Half in fear, yet no tear 
Of grief comes to give my heart relief. 
Who so full of sorrow would care to borrow 
Farther sadness from the morrow — 
The morrow, Andrian ! 

I am waiting, Andrian ! 
With a sullen roar groans the shore, 
While the gulls, in the momentary lulls 

Of the storm, flit about my form, 
And shrieking as in pain, say I wait in vain — 
In vain, Andrian ! 



56 



OVER THE WAY. 



■^ 




OVER THE WAY. 

There are two objects o'er the way — 
I stand and watch them day by day: 
A singing bird with golden wings, 
A maiden fair for whom he sings. 

He pertly twists his yellow throat, 
And in his song links note to note, 
To touch the heart with sweet surprise. 
Then curtly winks his bead-like eyes. 



She feeds him with her finger-tips. 
She lets him peck her scarlet lips ; 
He sees the gently falling tear. 
He hears her sigh, when none are near. 



. OVER THE WAY. 

But can he give back sigh for sigh ? 
Or read the love-glance in her eye ? 
Translate a tear? Or know the bliss 
Tliat lies within a rapturous kiss ? 

No interchange of tender speech, 
No lore to learn that love can teach, 
No yearnings, which so fitful burn 
That cheeks grow red and white by turn, 

O little bird — I envy thee ! 
O bright-eyed maid — I pity thee ! 
Nor envy nor pity will mend 
The grievous matter, little friend. 

A lover will come by and by, 
O maiden with the kindling eye ! 
Who'll love thee better than his life. 
And take thee home to be his wife. 

May he be kind, may he be good. 
Be all that gentle lover should ! 
O'er the way quite drear will be 
When maid and bird no more I see. 



57 



58 VERY SOON TOLD, 



BROWN EYES. 

So full of holy love and trust, 

A voiceless speech is theirs indeed ! 
And yet how earnestly they plead ! 

Or sparkle, when they say, *' You must f 

How much of love and constancy 
An eye of deep'ning brown implies ! 
We know not where its beauty lies, 

And so we look again — to see ! 

To bachelors this a risk may be ; 

At least it was to me, I know. 

Brown eyes light up my life below. 
For I once looked again, to see ! 



VERY SOON TOLD. 

I. 

Adorned in a veil of tremulous lace 

Softly enfolding thy beautiful face. 

And sweet-scented flowers in blossom and bloom 

Torn from the breast of the odorous June ! 
A young blushing bride to the altar he led thee, 
Thy beautiful life lost in his when he wed thee ! 



HOPEFUL TO THE END. 59 

II. 

A simple cap with its edging of lace 
Inclosing thy white and sorrowful face! 
A shroud less white in the shadowy gloom — 
A phantom to startle the night in June ! 
Forgetting the vows that he made when he wed thee, 
He down to the grave of the heart-broken led thee ! 



HOPEFUL TO THE END. 

The world was never kind to me : 
I drifted idly out to sea 
Without a compass; with no chart 
Except my purity ot heart. 

It is for that I thank my God ! 
He gave me Grace, and so I trod 
O'er slippery places and was saved ; 
Yes — for this let God be praised ! 

And now I see the shining goal, 
And newer life is in my soul ; 
I lay my pilgrim staff aside, 
And trust in Mercy to the tide. 



6o MANYy MANY LEAGUES AT SEA. 



MANY, MANY LEAGUES AT SEA. 

At eve I pace the yellow sands — 
I wipe my hair with nervous hands, 
. So thick with dew the shining bands. 
I sigh, I moan, O wearily ! 
For many, many leagues of sea 
Now lie between my love and me ! 

His lips rained kisses on my hair ! 
He left me standing, trembling there ' 
He said, in words so soft and fair, 
^' I will come back, come back to thee, 
Though many, many leagues of sea 
May lie between my love and me !" 

I wait and wait for that glad day 
When he will come again this way. 
When he will take my hands and say, 
^* I come, I come, at last to thee ! 
No more shall weary leagues of sea 
E'er lie between my love and me !" 

O do not say I wait in vain ! 

That others watched with throbbing brain 

For truant ones who never came ! 

So false to me he could not be. 

Though many, many leagues of sea 

Do lie between my love and me ! 



MV BABY-BOY IS DEAD! 6l 



THE WORLD IS FULL OF EARNEST 

MEN. 

The world is full of earnest men, 

Who live to love and labor, 
To do the little good they can. 

And help a struggling neighbor. 

With grace increasing as they go. 
With hearts to friendship given, 

They rob life's journey of its woe, 
And make of earth a heaven. 

There is a light their souls within, 
Though dark the skies above them ; 

Each sits enthroned through life a king 
Amid the hearts that love them. 



MY BABY BOY IS DEAD! 

My baby-boy lies on my breast : 
How early and .supremely blest, 
To know no sorrow nor unrest ! 

My baby-boy lies on the bier : 
Earliest flowers of the year 
Gather to shed their fragrance here. 
6 



62 DREAM VAGARIES. 

My baby-boy lies in the tomb : 

There comes an answer from the gloom, 

" Within the grave there yet is room." 

My baby-boy lives in the sky, 
Where worlds in careless beauty lie. 
And I shall see him, by and by ! 



DREAM VAGARIES. 

Parted from the world in slumber, 

Or the calmer arms of sleep, 
Through my weary brain go flitting 

Fancies strange and deep. 
Fields of beauty treading, dazzling and wide-spreading, 

I awaken but to weep. 

O, such spells of deep'ning rapture ! 

O, such winsome notes of song ! 
O, such visions born of fancy, 

How they shapen, how they throng ! 
Till my soul resistless, like a leaf is listless. 

Borne the leaping tide along. 

Floating on through airy visions. 

With sail lagging in the breeze, 
Pass I islands like Ionia, 

Gently cradled in the seas — 



DREAM VAGARIES. 63 

Islands sweet and olden, with the glories golden 
That the white-robed summer weaves. 

Songs of love and songs of vintage, 

And the thrum of saraband, 
And feet rustling like the branches 

By the southern breezes fanned ; 
All the air is waking, blending with the breaking 

Of the waves upon the sand. 

Upon the harp and cithern 

Trembling fingers sweep the strings, 

And tears glisten on the lashes 
Of the maiden while she sings; 
Castanets are keeping time to the beating 
Of the feet within the rings. 

Thus I float by islands wasting 

Precious spices on the breeze, 
Islands flecked with all the fruitage 

Of the tropic and the seas — 
Isles of song and story, never bleak nor hoary 

With the frost the Winter weaves. 



64 A NAME THAT WAS NOT MINE. 



A NAME THAT WAS NOT MINE. 

You turned your face away from me, 

You heard not what I said, 
Nor knew how bitter were to me 

The weary tears I shed, 
But gazed far out upon the sea 

With face white as the dead. 

I felt your curls upon my cheek, 

I saw your dark eyes shine ; 
I heard your white lips gently speak 

A name that was not mine. 
My heart grew desolate and bleak, 

Yet made no outward sign. 

I spoke not of my love for you. 
That throbbed in heart and brain ; 

How dark the shades of ev'ning grew I 
How poignant grew my pain ! 

How moaningly the sea-winds blew! 
How damp the misty rain ! 

In sullenness I bit my lips, 

And felt my heart grow chill. 
Although those burning finger-tips 

Made all my pulses thrill. 
My hopes went down like freighted ships 

When all is calm and still ! 



BROKEN PLEDGES. 



65 




BROKEN PLEDGES. 

We walked across the hazel dell 
Down to the water's edge, 

Where the shades of evening fell 
Across the rocky ledge. 

The tide went dipping softly by — 
It touched your naked feet ; 

It seemed to me that none but I 
Should come so near my sweet. 

I could not see your dark eyes shine, 
But I could hear you speak ; 

I knew that tender words of mine 
Brought blushes to your cheek. 
6* 



66 COME TO ME, WHITE SPIRIT! 

I parted from you, then and ther^, 

To be away for years ; 
You gave to me a lock of hair — 

I kissed away your tears. 

Do words indeed sometimes mean naught .'* 

And kisses little more ? 
Are vows with unreal fervor fraught? 

Is love but idle lore ? 

When I came back — ah me ! ah me ! 

You were another's bride ! 
Life seems so wearisome to me 

I wish that I had died ! 



COME TO ME, WHITE SPIRIT! 

Come to me, white spirit ! 
Come on the viewless air to me. 
And speak of earnest things that be. 

Of life beyond the shores of Time ! 
I'll not shrink timidly away 
To see thee in thy bright array, 

But fondly place my hand in thine. 

Come to me, white spirit ! 
From the shadowy realms of Death, 
With fragrance of flowers in thy breath, 

And inspiration in thine eyes ! 



THE POET'S WISH. 67 

Thy lips still wear a crimson glow, 
Thy robe is white as sifted snow, 

And gemm'd with gems from Paradise. 

Come to me, white spirit ! 
Floating upon the atmospheres, 
Which bring naught of sighs nor tears 

Back from the City of the Blest ! 
In Duty's path alone, I know, 
Our souls more beautiful can grow. 

And sink like evening stars to rest. 



THE POET'S WISH. 

O LET me write deep, earnest lines — 

I care not if they simple be. 
So they but make men's hearts to throb. 

And turn with warmer glow to me. 

Upon the forge within the soul 

All earnest, living thoughts are wrought ; 
Not strange that they- in other souls 

Should find the echo which they sought. 

How many waifs from other times 

Fill souls with hopes or eyes with tears. 

While tomes of voidless thought lie lost 
Upon the shores of by-gone years ! 



68 LOVE'S MOODINESS. 

Be mine the poet's mission, then, 
To sing as sing the summer birds ; 

No mists to hide the arrow's flash. 
Uprising from a sea of words. 

Sooner let it be said, when glow 

Of thought no more this heart can touch, 

" What pity he so little wrote !" 

Than, '' Sad it is he wrote so much !" 



LOVE'S MOODINESS. 

Watch for me, wait on me. 

Call me a star ! 
Think of me, be to me 

What lovers are ! 

Worship me, cling to me 

Loving and true ; 
Call for me, bring to me 

Thoughts fresh and new ! 

Share with me, spare for me 

Every sweet ! 
Watch o'er me, care for me. 

Guiding my feet ! 

All your smiles give to me, 
All your best love ! 



FAITH AND LOVE. 69 

Say that you live for me, 
Live but to love ! 



Say you would cry for me, 
When I but grieve ; 

Say you would die for me 
That I might live ! 



FAITH AND LOVE. A FRAGMENT. 

Once, in wandering through the world, I saw 

A sweet and lovely child kneel down in prayer, 
Untutored in the letter and the law. 

And yet the faith of good old Paul was there. 
It shone within the soft and melting eyes. 

It hung upon the lips of rosy hue, 
And in the tones that sought for new supplies 

Of grace : and round her, to my eyes there grew 
A bright halo, such as often shone 
Around God's Son, in days long since agone. 

And then, in turn, I saw an old man die — 
His hair was hoary with the frost of years ; 

And on his wrinkled face there seemed to lie 
A saddened tale of waning hopes and fears. 

And his faith, too, grew stronger. more and more, 
As life grew gently " less upon the lee." 



70 



BESIDE THE GATE. 



The beating of Time's waves upon the shore 

Spoke not to him of night and mystery. 
The one December and the other May, 
And night of both quick breaking into day. 



BESIDE THE GATE. 

Beside the gate 
I sit and wait ; 
And the night grows late, 
O Warden with Sword of Flame ! 
My heart is sick, my feet are sore, 
The way was rough I travel'd o'er. 
The winds were sharp, the frosts were hoar. 

Beside the gate 
T sit and wait ; 
And the night grows late, 
O Warden with Keys of Gold ! 
The plains were wide, the hills were steep. 
The night brought neither rest nor sleep, 
The world laughed when it saw me weep. 

Beside the gate 
I sit and wait ; 
And the night grows late, 
O angel Warden within ! 
All the long way I bore my cross, 
Counted as gain each worldly loss, 
Sifted my gold from dust and dross. 




" Beside the gate 
I sit and wait ; 
And the night grows late, 
O Warden with Kevs of Gold !" 



THE DYING CHASSEUR. 

Beside the gate 
I sit and wait ; 
And the night grows late, 
O Warden with Crown of mine ! 
A pilgrim weary, wan and old, 
Uplifts the cross that he doth hold, 
So open wide the Gates of Gold ! 



73 



THE DYING CHASSEUR. 

In the cannon's deaf'ning thunder, 
Horse and foot went under. 
And with awe-struck wonder 

The massive lines swept on — 
Down the rocky steepness. 
Through the morass's deepness, 
O'er the moor's black bleakness, 
Till in its great completeness 

The battle for the day was won. 

Tired, broken down, and jaded. 
With colors torn and faded, 
By the shades of evening aided. 

The vanquished fell away ; 
The fight for the to-morrow 
Not the faintest hope could borrow, 
From the carnage, from the horror, 

That had been dealt them on that day. 
7 



74 



THE DYING CHASSEUR. 

Beneath a tree there rested, 
His brow with blood incrested, 
One whose arm had bravely tested 

The fiercest of the din ; 
Heedless that the field so gOry, 
That the victory of glory, 
To live in song and story. 

Had brought but death to him. 

''Quick, comrade! raise me higher, 
Press me tighter, nigher ! 
'Tis my heart's last desire 
To see the sunset fire 

Stretch away in ruddy streaks — 
For Eloise, my sweet, my dearest, 
With eyes the brightest and the clearest. 
Home — the fairest and the rarest, 
Love — the truest, the sincerest — 

All lie beyond those frowning peaks ! 

" My wife ! O my brave Turcello — 

I pray you tell her 
That in the sunset mellow 

I died — her name upon my lips ! 
That in a vision's splendor 
(O Love of Christ defend her !) 

1 saw a light, so soft, so tender. 
As but eyes of hers could render. 

Flash over my life's eclipse ! 

''Tell my children of the battle — 
How amid the deaf 'ning rattle, 



THE DYING CHASSEUR. 

Like herds of frightened cattle, 

The foemen turned and fled ! 
How we fought like ghouls, like demons, 
Wherever waved our pennons. 
Where fiercest belched the cannons, 

Trampling o'er the dying and the dead ! 

**The smoke from grim death's censer 
Makes the air grow denser. 
Makes my heart to throb intenser. 

And to bleed at every pore ! 
Can you, comrade, raise me higher ? 
Can you press me closer, nigher? 
'Tis my heart's last desire 
To see once more the sunset fire, 

And know that all is o'er !" 

But an eyelid's faintest quiver, 
But the frame's involuntary shiver. 
And that heart was still'd forever, 

And the chasseur's fight was done; 
Not his, at break of dawn to waken. 
To see the legions, compact, unshaken. 
Fight till every trench was taken. 

Till a lasting peace was won ! 



75 



76 ALMOST HOME. 



ALMOST HOME! 

"Are we almost Home?" 
Ahj yes, Pilgrim ! 
Wanderer on the Shores of Time, 
With shattered staff, 
And beard all white with rime; 
Journeying to the Mecca of thy soul. 
At first the cradle and at last the goal : 
Sweet the answering echoes come- 
" Almost Home !" 

"Are we almost Home?" 
Ah, yes, sweet child ! 
Trustingly nestling on the breast 
That would have thee stay, 
Yet envies thee thy rest ! 
Still standing on the vestibule of life 
With no laurels gathered in the strife! 
Low angelic whispers come — 
"Almost Home !" 

"Are we almost Home?" 
Ah, yes, dear girl ! 
Lingerer in this world below — 
Pale watchers counting 
The moments as they go ; 



THE CROSS OF CHRIST. 77 

Living — to wear ere long thy bridal veil ; 
Dying — to wear instead the shroud so pale ; 
First the altar, then the tomb ! 
"Almost Home !" 



THE CROSS OF CHRIST. 

Symbol of Shame ! Wretch, bow thy head ! 

Thy weight of sin bemoan, 
And wrap the darkness of the dead 

Around thy heart of stone ! 
Thy guilt so great that Jesus bled 

To ransom and atone ! 

Symbol of Hope ! O soul of mine, 

Why so despondent grieve? 
See, how aloft its glories shine ! 

Look up, O soul, and live ! 
For light, and life, and love are thine. 

Which none but Christ can give ! 

Symbol of Life ! Soul evermore 

Be thou a welcome guest ! 
Of promises, O soul adore, 

The sweetest and the best ! 
We leave at last earth's gloomy shore 

To be for aye at rest ! 
7* 



78 



THE LIGHT-HOUSE IN A STORM. 



THE LIGHT-HOUSE IN A STORM. 

With dull resonant roar 
The breakers lash the shore, 
And winds sigh evermore, 

Bemoaning their unrest ; 
The wildly screaming mews 
Go by in noisy crews, 
Lost in the dusky hues 

Which enfold the west. 

The crashing thunders rend 
The heavens, as they send 
The sharp peals that portend 

Demon orgies at sea. 
The lightning, in its gleam. 
Pours down a molten stream. 
Till the great chalk cliffs seem 

White spectral knights to be 1 



Upon a jutting reef. 
To all the clamor deaf — 
To seaman's great relief. 

The tow'ring light-house stands; 
And through the dark eclipse, 
Though silent are its lips, 
It signals to the ships. 

And waves its flaming hands ! 



THE LIGHT-HOUSE IN A STORM. 79 

O brightly burn the lamps 
Amid the gloom and damps ; 
Hourly the keeper tramps 

Up, up the spiral stair; 
A warden true though grim, 
For woe betideth him 
If lights burn faint and dim 

When Death rides on the air! 

Thus in the paths of life, 
With snares and pitfalls rife, 
Amid the daily strife 

The lamps of Heaven shine. 
The weary pilgrim sees, 
And seeing, he believes, 
Nor once the pathway leaves. 

Till called in God's good time ! 



8o 



LITTLE NELLIE. 




LITTLE NELLIE. 

Is there laughter in the parlor? 

Are there footsteps in the hall ? 
Do my eyes grow brighter, brighter, 

As I hear a childish call ? 
There's no laughter in the parlor, 

And in the hall no tread, 
And my eyes are red with weeping. 

For my little girl is dead ! 



Like a phantom in the gloaming 

The misty rain flits by. 
And the night wind in its moaning 

But mocks me as I sigh j 



LITTLE NELLLE. 

At the thought she is not near me, 

What bitter tears I shed ! 
I have altered much, I fear me, 

Since my little girl is dead. 

In the church-yard they have laid her. 

With a rose-bush at her feet. 
That, I half believe, will blossom 

Through all the snow and sleet ! 
'Twas four years since; and ''four years old' 

May on the stone be read ; 
And yet it seems but yesterday 

They told me she was dead ! 

Her face was like an angel's. 

And her eyes were like the stars, 
And she comes to me in visions 

Adown yon shining bars ! 
She is singing by Life's River, 

With a crown upon her head ! 
Then why should I be sorry 

That my little girl is dead? 



82 JUNE FLOWERS. 



NO O.CCASIONTO SIGH. 



I. 



Sorrowful and sad one day, 

I sat me down by the open door ; 

A cloud of rain in mistiness lay, 

A phantom wreck on an azure shore. 



IT. 



Humming a cheerful air was I 

As I sat by the open door ; 
What occasion had I to sigh 

When the sunlight shone on the oaken floor ? 



JUNE FLOWERS. 

Flowers, sweet flowers. 
Flung from the hands of od'rous June, 

To awake from a dreamy budding 
Into a rapturous bloom ! 

Flowers, sweet flowers. 
Born of a thought that was pure ! 
Blessed be God for these riches 
To gladden the hearts of the poor ! 



THE TWINS. 83 

Flowers, sweet flowers ! 
Nuns who are child-like and good, 

Worshipping — fireless, priestless — 
In the mossy aisles of the wood ! 

Flowers, sweet flowers ! 
For the bride and the sheeted dead — 

Speaking of Hope to the living, 
Of rest for the souls that have fled ! 

Flowers, sweet flowers ! 
O fill with your fragrance the air, 

When my soul shall escape from death 
Up the shining slopes of prayer ! 



THE TWINS. 



Come, Painter, paint this scene for me- 
lt much of fame will bring to thee. 
I'll part the curtains wider still : 
There, artist eyes, drink in your fill ! 

Two babes locked in one embrace. 
Two cherubs sleeping face to face ; 
Their lips so parted with a smile, 
We wonder what they dream the while. 

Their hair upon the pillow floats, 

And nestles round their snowy tliroats ; 



84 MARCH. 

Two gems are they from Paradise 
To fill the soul with ecstasies. 

Say, will you paint those babes for me? 
Babes sweet as any babes can be ? 
You shake your head with vacant air, 
For none can paint the beauty there. 



MARCH. 



The north winds blow less fierce and shrill, 
Stretches of verdure crown the hill, 
The ice is breaking by the mill. 

The sunlight sparkles on the sleet, 
The rabbit steals from her retreat, 
The sheep upon the hillsides bleat. 

The dormouse wakens from its sleep, 
From limb to limb the squirrels leap, 
The daisy takes a timid peep. 

The air beams with a warmer glow, 
The heat dissolves the veil of snow; 
Buds soon will burst and blossoms blow. 

Against the east bright colors cling, 
The unchain 'd brooks rejoice, and sing 
A welcome to the new-born spring. 



APRIL. 85 

In winter Nature takes her rest ; 
The germs beneath her frozen breast 
Will make the spring supremely blest. 

So death is but a quiet sleep : 

The grave cannot forever keep 

The darling ones o'er whom we weep. 

If God has led them by the hand, 
They will awake at his command 
In that eternal Summer Land ! 



APRIL. 



Blossoms drop from trees and bushes 
Sweet as the smile of unsaid words; 

And in the mellow air there gushes 
Wantonest melody of birds. 

With verdure the hills are crested, 

The valley is a lap of green ; 
Lilies, white, and tiger-vested. 

Fringe the borders of the stream. 

Against the west the clouds have drifted. 
Like ships astrand on sunken isles \ 

The shower breaks — then, quick uplifted, 
The rainbow spreads its beaming smiles. 
8 



86 MA}. 

Blade, and leaf, and ripplet dances 
Blithely to the rhythm of the rain ; 

The sunlight drops its golden lances. 
And all is bright and calm again. 

April, bright-eyed ! Soon departed ! 

Sweet her girlish whims and wiles ; 
None can call her fickle-hearted. 

However much she weeps and smiles. 

Are not we at times capricious? 

As muc/i the sport of smiles and tears ? 
Led by whims most injudicious 

O'er trackless wastes of hopes and fears? 

Her gentle rains set roses trailing. 
And flowers blow to genial ray ; 

In her sunsets softly paling 

Is framed the blushing face of May ! 



MAY. 

In wayside nooks, in quiet bowers. 

Where shadows dark and brooding lay, 

Laughing maidens gather flowers 
With which to crown the Queen of May. 

Brown birds flutter in the hedges. 
The belted bees cling to the thyme ; 



MA V, 87 

The wind wanders through the sedges, 
And weaves their meanings into rhyme. 

Pearly hues cling to the mountain, 
A pleasing hush clings to the woods ; 

Song of brook and gush of fountain 
Break in upon the solitudes. 

All the air is filled with sweetness, 
Delightful are the noonday calms ; 

Nature smiles in her completeness, 
And morning dews distill their balms. 

The twilight settles on the clover, 

The mower puts away his scythe ; 
Beside the gate a rustic lover 

Seeks favor in his sweetheart's eyes. 

The air darkens, and the roses 

Fold up the leaves outspread at noon ; 

And night, by light of stars, discloses 
The pathway of the young May moon ! 



88 7™^- 



JUNE. 

Come and watch the morning break 

Across the misty river ! 
Every sedgy leafs awake, 

And every wave a-quiver ! 

Underneath the bending sky 
A thousand tuneful voices ! 

Ev'ry pulse is beating high, 
And everything rejoices ! 

Garden herbs their perfume shed, 
The artichokes flare yellow ; 

Poppy leaves blush rosy-red, 
And harvest pears grow mellow. 

What a din, within the pines. 
The noisy crows are keeping ! 

Nods the grain in wavy lines. 
Soon ripe enough for reaping ! 

By the cherry-trees is heard 
A red and ceaseless dripping ; 

In the vines the humming-bird 
Keeps up his tireless sipping. 

Who can ever weave to rhyme 
This riot of the roses ? 



JULY. 89 



Or sounds that in the summer-time 
Break in on our reposes? 

Brightly falls the morning light, 
Softly falls the dew of even, 

Silently the balmy night 
Shuts the gates of heaven ! 



JULY. 

Deep in the brook's refreshing shade 
The panting cattle slowly wade. 
While leaves above are scarcely stirr'd 
By breeze, or flutt'ring wing of bird. 

Above us bends the heated sky ; 
The gnats in lance-like lines go by; 
So dry and parched the meadow grass, 
The engines fire it as they pass. 

The cricket beats its noonday drone; 
The bees cling to the hay new-mown ; 
An eagle poises in mid-air: 
No eye but his can stand the glare. 

We think of April's gentle rays, 
Her smiles and tears, capricious ways — 
Of rambles 'neath the young May moon, 
Of sweet and balmy hours of June ; 
8* 



90 



AUGUST SHOWERS. 

With aching eyes and fev'rish brain, 
We sigh for changing winds and rain ; 
E'en for November's frosty air, 
Than suffer from the heat and glare. 



AUGUST SHOWERS. 

The showers fall in fitful mood, 
The sunlight breaks above the wood ; 
And next, across a wall of rain 
The lightning trails its scarf of flame. 

The flowers lift their drooping heads. 
Pearls glisten on the spiders' threads ; 
And, with brightening tints of green. 
The meadows line the sparkling stream. 

Sluggish vapors hang in mid-air. 
Above the fields new-mown and bare ; 
The purplish mists blend hill and sky, 
And birds make joyful melody. 

Gusts of wind the tree-tops shake, 
And gently ruffle stream and lake. 
Or blend with heated atmospheres 
Till Nature laughs amid her tears. 




Deep in the brook's refreshing shade 
The panting cattle slowly wade." 



NOVEMBER. 93 

These August rains ! Oh, how we pray 
That they may come, most any day, 
To break the sultry summer heat 
And make the earth look fair and sweet ! 



NOVEMBER. 

The wind moans with a weary moan 

It caught up by the restless sea ; 
And in its breath, to mist half blown, 

A chilliness there seems to be. 
In granaries cobwebb'd and dim 

Lie heaps of yellow corn in store. 
While round the rafters floats the din 

Of threshers beating on the floor. 
November, wrapped in robes of gloom. 
Follows October to the tomb. 

Wild geese, mere specks the clouds amid, 

To autumn scenes now bid adieu ; 
The rabbit in the brush lies hid. 

With but her eyes to glimmer through ; 
The chestnut bursts its bristly coat 

To tempt the truant school-boy's feet ; 
The partridge shuts its piping throat 

While hunters round the coppice beat ; 
November over the landscape steals 
With bleak December at its heels. 



94 



HOME ON FURLOUGH. 



HOME ON FURLOUGH. 

The bugles blare, the drums peal out, 
The air flings back a noisy shout, 
A sea of faces lines the route. 

Adown the street the column tramps, 

And faces seen in glare of lamps 

Are bronzed by battle-fields and camps. 

Home only for a week or so ! 
Sweethearts and wives to greet — then go 
Again to meet the wily foe. 

They care not where they die, nor when ! 
Who would have thought there could have been 
So much unselfishness in men ! 

What age or country ever knew 

Of hearts more noble, brave and true 

Than beat beneath those coats of blue ? 

Mistrustful, I would keep away 
From me the man who does not say, 
*^ God bless our heroes of to-day !" 



so A MESSMATE WROTE. 95 



SO A MESSMATE WROTE. 

'' We found him," so a messmate wrote, 
*' Clinging to the treacherous moat, 
A sabre-wound deep in his throat. 

" His lips apart, his eyes still bent 

Upon the frowning battlement, 

On which the fearful charge was spent. 

"The hero-boy ! As soldiers should, 
Beneath a cross, simple and rude. 
We laid him in a quiet wood." 

From out the darkest clouds of night 
His country called him to the fight. 
And heart of his and mine said, '' right ! 

Wounded — O suddenly and deep ! 
Is there forgetfulness in sleep ? 
Do we feel better when we weep ? 

I cannot think brave thoughts to-day — 
So, like a sorrowing child, I'll lay 
My hands across my breast and pray. 

March 21, 1864. 



96 THE CAVALRY CHARGE. 



THE CAVALRY CHARGE. 

A PEAL from the throats of the bugles, 
A rushing up from the rear, 

A gleaming of swords in the sunlight, 
A clatter of hoofs on the ear. 

A flash in the eyes of the riders, 
A flash in the eyes of the steeds j 

''A life for a life," says Sadi, 
Was one of the Norsemen's creeds. 

Down the ravine streams the torrent. 
Prayers from Heaven invoke ; 

How many horses come riderless, 
Out of that sulphurous smoke ? 

Over yon ridge they are dashing, 
Avenging the comrades who fell. 

And shrill o'er the shuddering clamor 
Is heard their voluminous yell. 

A battery masked in a coppice, 
Belching forth shrapnel and grape. 

That it is gives to the charge 
Deadly and definite shape. 

Now comes the brunt of the battle — 
See how they die by their guns ! 



LASHED TO THE MAST. 

An infantry support is a poor one, 
That fires a volley — then runs ! 

The lines of the foemen waver 
As the charge comes surging on ; 

The fight for the day is over, 
And a battle lost and won ! 
April, 1864. 



97 



LASHED TO THE MAST. 

Past the sentinel forts 

Dash'd boldly the ships, 
Guns belching forth fire 

From their red-hot lips. 
The crews sworn together 

To stand to the last, 
By the brave Admiral 

Lashed to the mast. 

Amid the smoke flutter'd 

The stripes and the stars ; 
Above the din was heard 

The shouts of the tars. 
None car'd for the danger. 

And none stood aghast — 
Was not the Admiral 

Lashed to the mast ? 
9 



gS LASHED TO THE MAST. 

The loud roar of the guns, 

The shriek of the shells, 
The air filled with smoke 

And sulphurous smells. 
A hail of hot iron 

Thick falling and fast, 
Round the brave Admiral 

Lashed to the mast. 

The deck of the flag-ship 

Slippery with gore, 
Thund'ring from ev'ry 

Huge gun that she bore. 
The Tecumseh went down 

In the fearful blast. 
Wept by the Admiral 

Lashed to the mast. 

O how it stirs the heart 

Of loyal and leal 
To think of that fight in 

The Bay of Mobile ! 
Where navy won laurels 

More bright than the past. 
Under old Farragut 

Lashed to the mast ! 

The American navy — 
The best in the world ! 

The American Banner — 
The proudest unfurl'd ! 



THE SNOW THROUGH THE NIGHT. 99 

The American Sailor — 

Let cowards avast ! 
The type of her bravest 

Lashed to the mast ! 



August 17, 1864. 



THE SNOW THROUGH THE NIGHT. 

Softly the snow is sifting, 
Into the hollows drifting, 

Draping all the hills in white ; 
The clouds while westward winging 
Great, wide stairways are flinging 

Down from heaven through the night ! 

A thousand gems are shining, 
On ermine scarfs entwining 

Porch and gables old and bare ; 
And trees in robes, white, saintly, 
Decked with diamonds quaintly. 

Fling their arms out on the air. 

Faint signal lights are streaming, 
And phantom tents are gleaming 

On the distant mountain ridge ; 
And sentinels crouch grimly 
Where are outlined dimly 

The mill and its rustic bridge. 



lOO 



THE SNOW THROUGH THE NIGHT. 









-.r^c'-j, /^^^•:.. 



"^'ii 



Such tapestry, such webbing, 
On looms of human threading 

Never were so deftly spun ; 
Nor carpets soft and yielding. 
The faintest echo shielding, 

As those from heaven flung. 



Each gentle flake, though roving. 
Is born of God's great loving, 

Does its mission well and right ; 
While we, almost anointed. 
Neglect the work appointed. 

And go groping through the night. 



IN THE SWING, loi 



IN THE SWING. 

Swinging among the white maples, 
Shut away from the sultry noon, 

A picture to haunt the mem'ry 
Framed in the rich summer bloom. 

Two little feet of pearl whiteness 
Are flutt'ring about in the air, 

And two little eyes are twinkling 
In the mists of her amber hair. 

A jupe that is blushing scarlet 
In the clasp of a starry zone \ 

A mouth as red as a leopard's, 
A voice low and sweet in its tone. 

A shout and a peal of laughter, 
A kiss thrown from a tiny hand. 

As if on an outward-bound steamer 
Veering away from the land. 

Thus dreaming away her childhood, 
A beautiful Vision of bliss ; 

No thought of a world in future, 
Contented with little in this. 



9* 



I02 NBA RING THE BEACH. 

Dear me ! It sets one a-thinking ; 

Good thoughts make us better, we know; 
Half of us jog along dreaming 

Upon the short journey below. 



NEARING THE BEACH. 

The shore grew dim in the falling spray, 
And our eyes grew dim with our tears ; 

For were we not drifting calmly away 
From the Castle of Doubts and Fears? 

The oars ceased their monotonous sweep. 
We gazed into each other's eyes ; 

Mine, like the sea, were moody and deep. 
And yours were as blue as the skies. 

' One little word my dull life to bless !" 
When, dipping your hands in the spray, 

Did not your heart whisper fondly, " yes," 
Though your lips whispered sadly, '' nay" ? 

I spoke again. What was it I said ? 

Love learns not its speeches by rote ; 
Your heart leap' d to the answer it made. 

And mine — it crept into my throat ! 



MUSIC, lo 

It didn't choke me, I'm happy to say: 
Love's silence is sweeter than speech ; 

For hours your head on my bosom lay, 
As we lazily neared the beach. 



MUSIC. 



When first the world from shapeless chaos sprang, 

Rapturous Music filled the yielding air ; 
The stars of the young morn together sang, 

For light, and life, and love were ev'rywhere ! 
x\nd floating downward from Creation's birth 
It with its melody fills all the earth. 
'Tis the soul of Poetry and the voice of Love, 

Baptizing Worship with its spirit light \ 
Through all Nature its sweet enchantments move. 

And most seductive in the sleeping night. 
It murmurs in the leaves, it gurgles in the rill, 

And Hatred flees, and Slander stops her tongue ; 

It drops into the soul the notes of song, 
And whispers to the surging waves, ''Be still !" 



I04 



/ HAVE OFTEN WATCHED HER. 



I HAVE OFTEN WATCHED HER. 

I HAVE often watched her 

When she knew that I was nigh ; 

I have seen her white hands tremble, 
And I have heard her sigh. 

She does not say I must depart — 

Yet asks me not to stay ; 
And if, perchance, her glance meets mine, 

She turns her head away. 

She e'er selects the songs I love. 

The books of which I speak ; 
A thoughtless word from me will bring 

A tear-drop to her cheek. 

Her voice is sweet. It vexes me 

That she so rarely talks ; 
Yet, 'tis that silence makes the heav'n 

Around our moonlight walks. 

I have not told her of my love — 

I know not if I dare ; 
She seems by far too good for me, 

And too divinely fair. 

I know not whether she loves me. 

Or hopes to be my wife ; 
I o»ly know that she is all 

My happiness in life. 



SUMMER NIGHT. 



105 



SUMMER NIGHT. 

With whispers any heart would trust, 
With loving hand, the wind doth thrust 
The curtain folds away, 
So waiting ear might better hear 
What willing lips may say. 
Upon the floor like silver flakes. 
Or blossoms that the South wind shakes, 
The noiseless moonbeams fall; 
While on the sky all over lie, 
Like beads the nun-like moon hath dropped, 
The stars ; and bars 
Of darker clouds the light ones stay 
That else would drift serene away. 

The sash around, above, below, 

In curls a belle would love to throw 

Back from her snowy brow, 
The ambitious vine doth climb ; 
And more aspiring yet, and bold. 
Of lightning-rod it taketh hold, 
And, mounting to the very eaves, 
Looks down upon the train it leaves 1 

Of trust, how sweet 

An emblem meet ! 
Its love in green festoons it shrouds, 
The route of lightning from the clouds ! 



lo6 SUMMER NIGHT. 

So calm and still is every thing, 
The brooklet doth not care to sing ; 

But starts a strain, then stops again, 
Like one would strike the soft guitar 
When thought is with a heart afar. 
Laggard on the air the thistle floats. 
Upon the moon the night-owl gloats ; 

The dog on guard within the yard 
In thrilling dreams of chase is lost — 
A sentinel asleep upon his post ! 

Amid the gently-falling light, 
Amid the grandeur of the night, 

I softly tread. Around my head, 
And shutting half my form from view, 
The curtains hang; and, looking through, 

My heart doth beat like the feet 
Of children patt'ring on the leaves — 
While within my inner life there breathes 

A gentle prayer for watchful care. 
And all the Lord hath done for me. 

Ah ! rather by that window would I be 
Than in courts of " Kingdoms by the Sea !" 

My heart is here : and only where 
The heart is found can pleasure dwell. 
An adulating tongue might tell 
Of pomp and power ; and flattery kneel 
To worship, when it did not feel ; 

But heart would sigh again to fly 
Where would fall upon the ear 
The breathings of the loved ones near. 



THE BLOSSOMS. 



107 



MY TROUBADOUR. 

One ev'ning beside my window 

In moodiness sat I ; 
Had ev'rything gone wrong that day? 

What was it made me sigh ? 

Then came from out the lilac-bush 
Sweetest song I e'er heard ; 

I rose, and was surprised to find 
My troubadour a bird ! 

It gave me faith, that trilling song. 

It was so free and glad ; 
I looked to God with clearer eyes, 

And felt no longer sad. 



THE BLOSSOMS WERE CROWNING 
THE HEDGES. 

The blossoms were crowning the hedges, 
The skies glowed serene in the west. 

When you gave me those sweet, sweet pledges 
That made me so thoroughly blest. 



io8 ALLIE FAY. 

I think of those vows sweet and tender, 
I think of those whispers of love, 

I think of those eyes that in splendor 
Shone down, like the stars from above. 

The next thing to thinking is dreaming ; 

So I dream of thee in my sleep, 
And wake from the witch'ry of seeming 

At one tender name that I speak. 



ALLIE FAY. 



Like an angel she is seeming, 
Fit to mingle with our dreaming. 
In the twilight shadows stealing, 
Now so softly, sweetly kneeling 

Down to pray ; 
With her ringlets brightly streaming. 
From her ivory forehead gleaming. 
On her snowy neck reclining. 
Half cajoling, half repining — 
Allie Fay ! 

One could worship without sinning 
Eyes like hers, so bright and winning, 
Like diamonds in their glancing. 
More bewitching and entrancing — 
'Tis their way ! 



OUT IN THE SNOW. 109 

Her heart is constant in its loving — 
Never, like her footsteps, roving ; 
And her mien so sweet, impressing. 
None can pass without caressing, 
Allie Fay ! 

No faint smiles are doubt betraying 
As you listen to me saying, 
In a cloud-isle tipped with gold 
Did eyes of Allie first behold 

Light of day ! 
And young and white-winged angels 
Poured out their sweet evangels, 
Game with melodious singing. 
Came to greet her life's beginning — 

Allie Fay ! 



OUT IN THE SNOW. 

But few tears will be shed 
For the woman found dead 
In that white, frozen bed, 

Out in the snow ! 
Blinding flakes fill the air : 
How the stony eyes stare 
Through the damp, draggled hair, 

Out in the snow ! 

Did she moan, did she weep, 
In that stillness of sleep, 
10 



no PENITENT. 

In the white drifts so deep, 

Out in the snow? 
There's a babe on her breast ! 
It has gone to its rest, 
O how supremely blest ! 

Out in the snow ! 

Ah ! God knows what right is, 
Though dreary the night is. 
And touching the sight is. 

Out in the snow ! 
No more will she borrow 
Faint hope from the morrow, 
Nor sigh in her sorrow. 

Out in the snow ! 



PENITENT. 



In the twilight I am calling. 

Lord, to thee, in earnest prayer ; 

Darker than the shadows falling 
Is my heart, in its despair. 

i 
Ever sinning, ever erring. 

Wayward to my trust and thee ! 

Heart its duties oft deferring. 

Hard as any heart can be ! 



THE OLD WORLD WEDDED TO THE NEW. m 

Now each secret fault confessing, 
Deed and word and thought of sin, 

Grant, O Lord, thy promised blessing, 
Grace to bear and peace within ! 

Jesus, thou art all compassion. 
Pure and boundless love thou art ! 

Crown me now with thy salvation. 
Enter now this waiting heart ! 



THE OLD WORLD WEDDED TO THE 

NEW. 

Old ocean startles at the shout 
That echo flings from hill to hill ; 

Genius has traced a brazen route 
Within her heart, and she is still. 

O'er yawning steeps and hidden deeps, 

In many leagues the cable lies. 
And thought electric o'er it leaps — 

The lightning wrested from the skies ! 

Triumphs won and triumphs surmised, 
Shine dimly in this grand eclipse ; 

And Progress stands, herself surprised, 
With finger pressed upon her lips ! 



1^2 THE LOST SOUL. 

Together sing, ye Stars of Morn ! 

Break out in thrilling song anew, 
To greet the swelling cry upborne — 

'' The Old World wedded to the New !" 



THE LOST SOUL. 

Lost ! lost ! lost ! 
Far beyond a hope or prayer. 
Upon the beach of its despair ! 
A soul from out the realms of mind. 
By God created and designed ! 

Lost ! lost ! lost ! 
From the sweetest joys of heaven, 
From the life that God hath given ! 
Afloat upon a trackless sea — 
Lost, lost, to all Eternity ! 

Lost! lost! lost! 
The cry comes up, appalling, dread ! 
So full of terror and dismay 
The very air doth shrink away ! 

Lost! lost! lost! 
A wretched, yet deserved doom 
More dark than thought of gaping tomb ! 
The very darkest life of woe 
A soul accurst can ever know ! 



AT SEA. 



"3 



AT SEA. 

At sea ! Ah ! thitherward the heart 
With keen solicitude will turn ; 

With tears we see loved ones depart, 
With smiles we welcome their return. 

Yet life is but a dreary sea, 

Eternity lines the further shore; 

But listless followers are we 

Of voyagers who've gone before. 

Where is the haven of our rest ? 

And what beyond the moaning sea? 
Are ours the prayers of the blest, 

To reach into Eternity ? 

Prayers for strength^ and faith, and love. 
For ourselves and for our fellow-men ; 

And sailing by one star above, 
The shining Star of Bethlehem ! 



lO* 



114 ^^ ^^^ UTIFVL BEL O VED. 



MY BEAUTIFUL BELOVED. , 

Adrift upon a trackless sea, 
No faith in things that are to be, 
No guide, no compass, and no chart, 
A more than Ishmael in heart. 
Who entwined with gentle hands 
Her soul with mine in silken bands ? 
And fill'd with hope the laggard sail, 
The spirit pilot of the gale ? 
'Twas thou — my idolized, my own! 
The light that glorifies my home. 
My Beautiful Beloved ! 

I love thee ; not that thou art fair 
As maidens of Ionia are ; 
But because a life so pure as thine 
Hath made mine own grow more divine 
Because, led by thy spirit, 
I see the joys we shall inherit. 
No matter which may go before. 
To tread yon dim, uncertain shore. 
The one will for the other wait 
Beside the ever-shining gate, 
My Beautiful Beloved ! 



WHICH? 115 



WHICH? 

Without — the fountain's cheerful plash- 
Within — a needle's tireless flash ; 
A bird perched on a swinging-bar, 
Some gold-fish in a white-globe jar ; 
A bitter heart-pang, then a stitch ! 
Forgotten or forsaken? Which? 

Ah ! vows are sometimes light as air ; 
Men may be false and yet seem fair ; 
Some other dear one they caress, 
And absence makes their love grow less ; 
She loops in fears with every stitch — 
Forgotten or forsaken? Which? 

A letter written but missent ? 
A ship with masts dismantled, bent? 
A ling'rer near a dying friend? 
Perhaps his own life near its end ? 
She loops excuses with each stitch — 
Soon to return, or never / Which ? 



Il6 TALKING LETTERS, 



TALKING LETTERS. 

I LOVE talking letters. Do letters talk? 

They talk to me for hours. I fold them up 

And put them away, but their chattiness 

Is about me still. I dream waking dreams. 

Such as oft have neither aim nor purpose, 

Yet sweet to me the while. I am a child, 

Touch'd by childish things? Well — may you ne'er 

long 
To be once more as child-like as a child ! 

Such letters may say idle things idly ; 

They may mean little or they may mean much, 

Just as you take them. They make you weep; 

You know not why, nor do you care to know. 

It is their enthusiasm that you love ; 

You feel that dreary years have left you still 

Enough to send an answering echo back. 

Their silent inspiration inspires you. 

And their eloquence is the eloquence 

Of sweet thoughts spoken sweetly — unstudied. 

Yet running over with oratory ! 

They may tell of forest sanctuaries, 

With leafy galleries and mossy aisles, 

And starlit domes, beneath which saintly ghosts 

Gather to worship in the gloaming ; 



TALKING LETTERS. ny 

Of music set for throats whose improvising 
Makes you hold your breath, yet vexes you 
With its fits and starts ; of brooks that gossip, 
And flowers that blush because they listen ; 
And so it is that you think summer thoughts, 
And your heart is all the better for it ! 

I have such letters. A full score of them. 
Tied with blue ribbon. I read them often, 
And then about my hushed heart I feel 
A pair of soft hands which push aside 
The curtains of my vain forgetfulness, 
And flood with a summer radiance the walls 
On which are hung the portrait faces 
Of the lost, the absent, and the dead ! 

And then a form, a girlish form, such as 

Artists dream they see — mind, but dream they see — 

Kneels beside the one lone tomb my soul 

Contains. Ah ! she is the young '' mortality" 

Of my ideal life 5 one who oft doth come 

To renew the inscription on the stone — 

Not with maul and chisel— but with tears ! 

I saw the hand that wrote these letters 

Folded with its fellow o'er a pulseless breast. 

Looking as if it were cut out of stone. 

In its whiteness, and than stone more cold. 

I mean to say that she is dead ? I do — 

And yet, when I read these letters, it seems 

It cannot be ! I hear her voice again ; 

I hear her agile tread again ; I feel 

Her hand in mine; I feel her lips touch mine; 



Il8 COME HOME! 

I see a pair of blue eyes quick warming 

Into gray ; I speak to her, and these letters 

Answer me ! They make me feel both sad and glad j 

Sad because she is no more, and glad 

Because I shall surely see her by and by ! 



COME HOME! 



Come Home ! 
The hours seem so wearisome ! 
The stars shone with a gentle glow 
And June walked o'er the world below 
When last we parted by the moaning sea ; 
And blushing June again is here : 
Though but an absence of a year, 
It seems like many, many years to me ! 

Come Home ! 
It is so sad to be alone ! 
I call thee in my restless sleep ! 
I often sit alone and weep 
Tears briny as the waters of the sea ; 
I know my heart can never learn 
To wait with patience thy return. 
For thou art more than all the world to me ! 

Come Home ! 
Each wildly throbbing pulse says Come ! 
To kiss me once again, my love ! 
To call me thine again, my love ! 



IN THE EMPTY CHURCH. XI9 

I weary, waiting by the moaning sea ! 
I know that it is very wrong, 
But still my heart will sometimes long 

At rest within the voiceless grave to be ! 



IN THE EMPTY CHURCH. 

Faintly sad heart fluttered, 

Faintly white lips muttered, 
While through the windows, wide, unshuttered, 

A stream of sunlight, amber sifted. 
Fell and drifted — 

Enveloping the altar 

And prayer-book and psalter, 
And the high white brow uplifted. 

In the solemn stillness. 

In the death-like chillness, 
With face white from weeks of illness, 

She humbly knelt. While no word spoken 
Gave sign or token 

Of the great grief she felt — 
The grief, .the sorrow, that on the morrow 

Might leave her poor heart broken ! 

The morrow ! By that altar. 
That prayer-book and psalter. 
Too richly blest to falter. 



I20 THE DEAD HEART. 

Another, his white-veiled bride would stand ! 
While at diamond dresses trailing, 
And the organ's solemn wailing, 
Or sudden crash of thunder, 
The crowd would gape and wonder, 
And the bridegroom blush and blunder. 
As he took the snow-white hand ! 

Lonely and neglected. 
Forsaken and rejected, 
Not strange that she knelt dejected- — 
Knelt with face uplifted, 
Where the sunlight, amber sifted. 
Fell and drifted ; 
Or with hands at aching head. 
Half unconscious in her dread. 
Wished that she were dead ! 



THE DEAD HEAR'T. 

Like shrouds seem to you the curtains of lace, 
And the mirrors mock at your faded face. 
And the carpets seem but like frozen sleet 
As they hush the tread of your tired" feet. 

Your hands are nervous and your lips are white. 
And you toss and moan in the dreary night ; 
And at dawn you walk with a queenly tread 
Through the marble halls — but your heart is dead ! 



rilE DEAD HEART. 121 

A solemn rite — but a farcical vow, 
And a coronet gilded your aching brow ! 
''A duchess is,she !" from lip to lip flew: 
'' A skeleton Bride is she !" said you. 

Titles are paltry — and gold is but dross — 
And the loss of love is a fearful loss ! 
Slowly, drop by drop, the wasted heart bleeds, 
With nothing to answer its thousand needs ! 

Ah ! let not your eyes in their envy gloat. 
Or your wan hands catch at your choking throat, 
When you see Reuben's loaded wain go by, 
A smile on his lips and a flash in his eye, 

As he chats with Madge on the new-mown hay. 
Happier than a queen this many a day ! 
The Duke had money — the yeoman had none: 
So the poor man lost and the rich man won. 

Reuben's hurt heart felt a wild throb of pain. 
But he outlived that, and he loved again; 
Pretty Madge is all that is loving and true. 
And he ne'er has time for a thought of you ! 

The folly was yours, and so was the sin ; 
What matters it now if "it might have been!" 
Your heart — it is dead, and gold — is but dross. 
And the loss of love is a fearful loss ! 



II 



122 SOFT RAIN. 



SOFT RAIN. 

I LISTEN, soft rain, 
As thy drops beat against the pane ; 
Dost come, with meaning voice of thine. 
To braid thy locks of mist with mine? 

Kiss my lips, soft rain ! 
And cheek, and brow, and lips again ! 
Often and long, with flow of tears. 
As though we were to part for years ! 

I am sad, soft rain ! 
So call me sister now, by name ! 
I, too, could weep my heart away 
That others might grow strong to-day 1 

So soon gone, soft rain ? 
Thy mists rolled up in sheets of flame ! 
The sun has wiped thy tears away — 
So it shall mine, this weary day! 



FRO.^r GRAHAM'S CABINET OF KISSES. 123 



FROM GRAHAM'S CABINET OF KISSES. 

Press kisses on my brow, Margery ! 
They drink the shooting pains away, 
They make my soul grow strong to-day ! 

Press kisses on my lips, Margery ! 
My soul like mellow music notes 
To lands of sunny visions floats ! 

In thy soft arms, my Margery, 
I seem like one dead ! And yet, O bliss ! 
In rapture give back kiss for kiss ! 



>"! 



?4' -^i^ 






-- ^.' ^iMl"'* .%ijfc' w^- ^"Sf 



'■ ^3fe 



■^'■•^ . 


. '■> '■' ^ 




'""■^fe^' 


,...■■•-. -" 


■'m. 


r ' '^. ' -. 


: ■■■i^\ 


V V* 


/ '^^^:: 




.;vi">"- 




-V./;\: 


^^' ' '- ■ ■ 


'-■•.•-*x» 


. .■. -.';' 


A -1 •,;•-> 


- '^ 


1 •• \v 




•^!f ^^ 


1 


1 • ■ » * 



^:i';> 
::^^ 






.■- i^ ',\ 



.■■••/?r*'jy;^^c.^^ 



1 r*y;n 



*.l*^' 



V.J! 



.v.'^' *^* ''■• •**. 



^4 



n 



ifii 















.^ 







